Musically Magical
by Behindthebook08
Summary: Hermione is one step away from giving up her dreams for a life she never wanted, can an unexpected concert and a surprising show of support raise her spirits back up? Hermione/Fred (Though I suppose it's really more of a Hermione/Music fic...)


**A/N: Hello All! I'm sorry it's been so long since I last posted anything! There are many pieces in the works, but my life has been in overload lately, and I haven't had nearly as much time for writing. But don't worry, I'm not dead yet!**

**I had one of my friends on Twitter challenge me yesterday to write a fic about what I do in real life. Now I don't know if she was serious or not… but she still got her wish, lol. I'm a professional Irish Folk singer in "real life", and so I wrote about that—with a good touch of Hermione, Fred, and magical wonderfulness. The only bit of this that _isn't_ from my own life is the bit of Fred at the end. Because I don't think my husband would be happy with my reaction if Fred Weasley was to walk into a place where I was singing…**

**So, without further ado… I hope you enjoy "Musically Magical".**

* * *

"That'll be one Galleon and two sickles, Miss."

Hermione smiled wearily at the young witch at the register, and carefully counted out the required money, sighing slightly as she realized that she would have to make these few groceries last quite a while.

Money was running low, and once again she wondered if she wouldn't have been better off accepting that job at the ministry. Shaking her head, she banished the thought from her mind, refusing to consider it again.

To all of her friends and family members she was a disappointment, undoubtedly. She was "unemployed", in their eyes at least. And she had been told by a fair few of them how she was wasting her potential. She remembered briefly speaking to Molly Weasley the week before, and the clear concern and disappointment in her eyes.

Her eyebrows furrowed slightly at the thought, _wasted potential_. Wasn't the whole point of life to live it? Was there really something so wrong with taking the time to pursue your true passions—with giving yourself a break after years of fighting?

Apparently, the answer was yes—according to her friends.

She was meant to have earned a mastery by now. She was supposed to be working in the Department of Mysteries doing research, and she was supposed to be marrying Ron. She was supposed to be settled.

She shook her head, almost wishing that she _had_ taken that easy road. The road away from happiness—but also away from unhappiness. The road to _fine_.

Sighing again, she gathered her bag of groceries and walked towards the exit, her eyes flickering over the noticeboard which hung in the window. She stopped short, noticing the dazzling green poster—a festival.

She shook her head once more, no, she should go home. She should sleep. She should plan out the rest of her life, and make a list.

She smiled lightly, no, that wasn't what she needed right now.

* * *

She apparated as soon as her foot met the pavement outside of the shop, landing gracefully on her doorstep. She hurried through the door, dancing around her welcoming feline as she shed her sensible outer robes, leaving them discarded on the floor.

She winked towards the kneazle before hurrying up the stairs, her shoes tripping off of her feet as she moved. She lost her shirt somewhere near the bathroom, and by the time she reached the bedroom the rest of her clothes had followed.

She hissed in pleasure as her oldest pair of jeans slid over her hips, and laughed lightly as she laced up her old Dr. Seuss themed trainers. Whoever said that Hermione Granger was a boring know-it-all obviously hadn't spent time with her on a weekend. She grinned as she snapped on an outrageous green bra, and pulled a tie dye shirt over it. Finally, a set of lace magenta robes, which Ginny had sent her for her birthday. She had never worn them before, but she couldn't quite say no to them today. They looked free and fun and _different_, and those were exactly what Hermione wanted at the moment.

Slipping down the stairs, she ran a hand through her mass of hair, ruffling it slightly and smiling again. To hell with everyone else, she loved her hair, and it loved her, and that's all that mattered. She didn't bother attempting to tame it today, but let it twist and snarl as it pleased. She quickly scratched Crookshanks between the ears, and blew him a kiss as she disapparated from the kitchen.

Her feet landed firmly in the dirt, and her eyes widened as she took in her surroundings. Merchants of all sorts were set up in the abandoned muggle fair grounds, and glancing around she could see the subtle traces of magic surrounding the area, feel the spark of concealment charms as she stepped through the gates.

To her left was a maze of food venders; popcorn and cauldron cakes, baked pies and ice cream sundaes. She waved lightly at the server in the Fortescue booth, having met him several times in her travels. A friendly looking witch was manning a butterbeer booth, and next to it a surly older gentleman was serving Firewhisky, Gillywater, and Mead to the more _experienced_ customers.

Waving her cravings off until later, she glanced to her right, noticing a whole variety of merchants. Children were spiraling through the air at one of the booths, miniature brooms clutched between their legs as excitable squeals exploded through the air, and across from them was a whole menagerie of owls, rats, cats and even pygmy puffs. A small girl tugged at her mother's sleeve, desperately pleading, "Martha Lillian has _three_ Pygmy puffs, Mum! Can't I just have one?" The witch in question frowned at the begging daughter, "Martha Lillian is also a spoiled little snot who pushes you in the dirt at school!"

Hermione laughed as she passed the quarreling family, and eyed a tent full of elaborate hair combs. She stared enviously, and a sales woman quickly approached her. "Miriam's Magical Self-Manipulating Hair Combs! Only three Galleons!"

Hermione smiled kindly, "They're beautiful," she started, but was quickly interrupted.

"May I use you as a model?" the woman asked, quickly taking strands of Hermione's hair in her hands, and wrapping them carefully around the comb. With a flick of her wrist, Hermione's usually untamed mass was beautifully coiffed, and Hermione couldn't hold back a sigh.

"That's fantastic charm work," she smiled, "But I can't right now, I'm sorry."

The saleswoman wilted slightly, freeing Hermione's hair and mumbling a quick "Thank you, and be sure to visit Miriam's in Diagon Alley."

Hermione sighed as she walked away, promising herself that she would introduce Ginny to the ingenious little hair combs as soon as possible. If the feisty red head was going to insist upon buying her bits of fashion for her birthday and Christmas presents, she might as well give her a shove in the right direction.

Making her way past the various sales people, she spied the enormous stage—her true destination.

Loitering towards the back, she watched as various witches and wizard wandered in and out of the tent, and tried to decide how she should handle this situation. She was alone—and she didn't know anything about the band which was meant to start playing. She clutched self-consciously at her robes, and worried her lip between her teeth.

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea—what was she meant to do at a concert all on her own?

As she worried, five wizards approached the stage. Each was wearing a tight fitting black Muggle suit, and her eyebrows rose in surprise. They looked fantastic, she couldn't deny that, but even after the war, muggle fashion wasn't considered exactly _fashionable_, or acceptable really.

The five men laughed together for several more moments, before taking their places across the stage. Hermione glanced around the half empty tent sympathetically; they certainly didn't have a crowd.

As a small trembling man stepped on to the stage, she moved forward slightly, wanting to support the musicians as much as she could. The jittering man approached the microphone, his voice cracking obviously, "W-Welcome to the Fourteenth Annual Muggle-Magical Music Festival!" he squeaked, "Up first, we ha-have a real treat for you. An Irish Muggle-Rock Band, Fightin' Firewhiskey!"

Hermione suddenly understood the muggle suits, these men were like her, and they were proud of that fact. With a sudden rip, the bass came to life, sending a jolt straight to her heart. Her eyes widened as she peered up at the stage, and another jolt was sent into the crowd. A fiddle soon joined in, and Hermione felt an energy begin to pulse through her. Without realizing it, her feet dragged her towards the stage.

They started with a song she knew from her childhood—one of the many her father would sing to her as they danced around the living room—except it _wasn't _that song. That song was simple and lilting; as she grew she used that song as a jump roping song. But _this_ song—this song had an electric guitar, and a bass, and the lead singer was singing it so fast that she was amazed he could breathe at all.

As his voice shouted out over the crowd, Hermione felt herself come to life—all the weariness from her unsuccessful day dripping off as an electricity filled her soul.

She laughed loudly as the music thrummed through the speakers and into her hips, causing her to dance without care or reason. She reveled in the twisting strain on her tongue as she struggled to keep up with the familiar lyrics, and sang without inhibition. She couldn't find it in herself to care if the others in the quickly building crowd disliked her voice, her dancing, or her body. She twirled freely, delighting as her new lace over-robe twirled around her in a translucent frenzy.

She had always known that she wasn't something special to look at; goodness knows she had heard it enough in her life. Frizzy hair, a large smile, and permanent wrinkles set near her eyes from so many hours reading in dim light. She _knew_. And usually, she was happy to remain in the back of a crowd. She was safe there, safe from their eyes and judgments. Safe from the knowing glances at her battle scars, and the recognition of the kind of life she had lived.

But tonight—something was different. Tonight, she belonged to the music.

Without realizing it, she found herself up against the stage, dancing next to a pulsating speaker.

The lead singer told them to jump, and so she did. Rejoicing as her feet left the ground and her hair flew around her in a rage, rejoicing in the satisfying pressure on her feet as she landed over and over again. And when she heard the lead singer mention a song about a man named Charlie, she shouted in jubilation, causing the nearby bassist to let out a laugh.

"Know the song, do ya?" he smiled towards her, and she screamed back over the noise of the crowd.

"Of course!"

As she danced and sang she watched his eyes with amusement as the continually flickered towards her—she knew that look, even if it was rarely sent in her direction, and she delighted in the fact that a man was looking at her in that way as she danced and sang.

He continually tried to talk to her, despite his place on the stage, and she continued to laugh and surprise him with her knowledge of the music. At the end of the night, when the sweat had doubled the size of her curls, and her clothing stuck to her sticky skin, she breathlessly went and thanked them for their magic—promising to see them again. The enamored bassist tried to talk to her, to find out her name—her story—but she had gone mostly deaf from the pounding speakers, and didn't hear a word of it.

She just happily spun away into the crowd.

* * *

The next evening she found herself standing in front of another, much smaller stage, sore and with a pounding headache. One would think that she had been imbibing in far too much Firewhiskey the night before—though she supposed that was true, they were called Fighting Firewhiskey, weren't they?

Perhaps she should have thought more closely about spending a night singing and dancing in front of a speaker—deafness wasn't likely to help her own performance, was it?

She tugged nervously at the t-shirt she had chosen—this was always the worst part. The part right before she had the microphone in her hand. Once she was on a stage—once she was singing in front of a crowd—then everything was wonderful. But those minutes that seemed to drag before she started—she hated that.

"Miss Granger?" A voice said timidly behind her, and she turned quickly, smiling.

"Mr. Fortescue, it's lovely to see you! Thank you so much for having me again."

"Thank you for coming, dear. It's always a pleasure. How's business?"

Hermione shrugged, "Not a complete failure—but I'm certainly not rolling in fame and glory yet."

The older man smiled, "Not that you would want it anyways."

Hermione looked at her toes, laughing lightly, "No, I suppose not."

"Well, I just wanted to make sure there wasn't anything you needed. Be sure to help yourself to a free cone after you're finished, alright?"

Hermione nodded politely, before stepping on to the stage, facing away from the crowd. She picked up her old guitar, and strummed it lightly—appreciating the self-tuning charm she had cast on the instrument.

She took a deep breath and flipped off her shoes, delighting in the feel of the wooden stage under her feet, and the soft breeze which blew through the outside patio.

Letting the breath out she turned around towards her audience, a bright smile on her face, and approached the microphone. Taking another deep breath, she felt the final specks of fear wither away and a spark of excitement begin to flame. Without a single strum to her guitar, or the slightest word of welcome, she let out a loud and full welcoming note. She allowed the sound the fill the patio and street, and relished in the raised eyebrows she received as the clear sound permeated each nearby conversation.

"I got your attention, didn't I?" she winked, causing a few groups to laugh. Then she started to strum, quickly and deliberately. The sound filled her with the same glee she had felt as she danced the night before, and suddenly her headache was gone and the aches were forgotten and she was dancing around her stage, suddenly free. "I'm Hermione Granger," she called out to the crowd, "And welcome to another Spectacular Saturday at Florean Fortescue's!"

At that point, she finally let the music out. A playful tune filling the air around the shop, and causing feet to tap around her. A small family wandered in and sat down in the grass nearby, and they spun their gleeful infant around as she giggled to the sound of the music.

Hermione smiled a bright smile as she moved from tune to tune. It was true, the music business had been tough lately, and very few people were willing to give her a chance. They didn't understand why a witch of her capabilities, and her background, would want to give it all up for the impoverished life of singer—but they also didn't understand true passion. Not passion like this.

They didn't understand the addictive swell of a chorus, or the overwhelming high from an applauding crowd. They didn't understand the powerful emotions from an audience who sang with you or a child who danced to your music. They couldn't.

The day before, she was another step closer to giving up and making an attempt at a _normal _life. Accepting one of the job offers or apprenticeships that continually came her way. She was ready to give it all up in the name of eating something _other _than a cup of noodles each night.

Then she had seen that band, and she had felt the crowd; she had allowed that energy to consume her. Now she was back, ready for more punishment and heartache as she fought to survive while doing what she loved the most.

After over an hour of performing, she announced a quick break and set down her guitar. She had just started to drink when a hand gently landed on her shoulder, shocking her and causing her to spill water all down her front.

She scowled and turned towards the person, only to jump in surprise once again. "Fred!" she squeaked, a fierce blush taking over her cheeks. "I didn't know—I mean, I didn't see you—I mean—you're here?"

He laughed, a brilliant smile taking over his face, "Well I just had to see what my favorite of all Grangers was doing with her life!"

She quirked an eyebrow at him, "I was under the impression that your whole family thought I was certifiable for doing this…"

"Oh, they do!" He admitted freely, "But they also think I'm insane for doing what I do, so obviously they're the ones missing out."

She smiled softly, "How did you know I was going to be here?"

"I saw you last night, at the festival, overheard you talking to Stuart—Fortescue's lackey."

"Employee."

"And I thought I should come see what the fuss was all about," he said with a shrug. "Honestly, I never thought you would loosen up enough to pull off something like this. You were always so proper in school; I just assumed that you would be the same way in your singing. Then I saw you last night," he said, a mischievous grin coming into the light.

Hermione blushed fiercely, realizing that he had seen her in her sweat drenched, music dazed state. "I—I—yes, I was there," she said dimly, "What were you doing there?"

"Our muggle magic tricks line is thriving! We couldn't miss out on the chance to sell to a load of _muggle enthusiasts_! Dad was heartbroken he couldn't go."

Hermione's blush, if possible darkened. "It's probably better that he couldn't go."

Fred laughed, "Don't worry, Hermione—I'll keep your secret. No one will suspect that you secretly enjoy…" he looked both ways before whispering dramatically, "Fun."

She swatted him lightly on the shoulder, "I have to get back to work," she said quietly.

"What a coincidence, I have to get back to watching you work!"

Hermione rubbed her arm self-consciously, "Look Fred, it's great that you came. But you don't have to stay—"

Fred rolled his eyes, "Hermione—you're brilliant. Don't be ridiculous, I _want_ to stay. Besides, any excuse to spend several hours staring at you is lovely for me! I mean, imagine if the only time I could creepily stare at you was during Sunday night dinners? That would be terribly awkward! This way, I can be an obsessively enamored school boy without you realizing it."

She let out a breathy laugh, "Well, we wouldn't want that. I'm sure I was be incredibly embarrassed by such a show of attention."

"I guessed as much, so please, be a pal and don't tell yourself?"

Hermione mimed a locking motion on her lips, before slipping back on to the stage. "I—I think it may be about time for me to sing a little love song for all of you, what do you think?"

She smiled as the crowd applauded loudly, and felt that usual rush sweep through her as she took her first breath. Mischievous brown eyes met her own, and she felt an entirely new rush flutter through her. She couldn't help but think to herself, _"I should dance more often."_

* * *

**Thank you so much for reading, and if you have a moment, PLEASE shoot me a review. I'm always excited to hear what you think, and work on improving my writing. Also, if you're interested in hearing more about my writing as I work on it, follow me on Twitter LadyChristineM, and if you're interested in hearing about my music in the duo of Blame Arthur Guinness check out BlameArthur!**_  
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